


Artemis At Sea

by nenya_kanadka



Series: Kittens of the Multiverse [2]
Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Kittens, Protectiveness, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-16 20:13:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9287948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nenya_kanadka/pseuds/nenya_kanadka
Summary: "Artemis, the captain called her: said she minded him of one of the goddesses in his fancy books, with her hunting and all."The ship's cat has kittens. Bush has opinions; Hornblower exhausts himself; Styles is given a heady commission.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aqwt101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqwt101/gifts).



> Artemis (Diana to the Romans) was the Greek goddess of the hunt, wild animals, childbirth, and virginity. 
> 
> Thanks for a quick canon beta goes to [muccamukk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/muccamukk), who also named the cat.

It was the whistling that gave Styles away. The box tucked under his arm was a weather-worn thing of ordinary dimensions and colour, not especially heavy-looking, but Styles was carrying it across the deck of the _Hotspur_ with extraordinary care. Every few minutes he would peer worriedly into the depths of the box and emerge wearing a poleaxed grin. Then, collecting himself, he would continue on his way as gingerly as if this box contained the admiral's finest crystal. 

And every time he thought he was being watched, he would start up an innocent whistle. 

Lieutenant Bush, leaning on the railing of the quarterdeck and eyeing a bank of clouds on the horizon, sighed inwardly. The man would make a worse spy than he made a cook. Best that Bush see what he was about. 

"Mr Styles!" he called, just as Styles bobbed up from the box once more with that look of foolish glee. "What have you there?"

Styles swallowed. He glanced down into the box again and back up at Bush, guilt wrinkling across his ugly mug. "Nothing, sir," he said. 

Bush let the sigh out. He straightened from the railing and looked pointedly at the box. "Are you in the habit of lying to officers, Mr Styles?"

Styles shifted from one foot to another. "Sorry, sir." 

"All right, let's see it, then." 

"You won't like it," Styles muttered in his general direction as he came towards the steps to the quarterdeck. He took each stair slowly, taking care to keep the box level as he climbed. "I told Matthews, I did, you wouldn't like it." 

The box thumped onto the rail in front of him, and Bush frowned into it. "A box of rags?" 

"Hah." Styles reached into the box and twitched aside a bit of cloth. The goofy smile had made its way back to one of the corners of his mouth. Something in the box moved. There was a tiny snuffle and an even tinier sneeze, and a small pointed head with milky grey eyes and a minuscule pink tongue appeared between two lumps of rag. Another bit of rag trembled and two very small paws emerged, wrapping around Styles's fingers before he could move them. "Kittens, sir." 

"Ah." 

"It's Artie, sir. Artemis, the captain called her, said she minded him of one of them goddesses in his fancy books, with her huntin' and all—" 

"I am aware of the ship's cat, Styles." Bush watched a third little head emerge dazedly from among its fellows. It blinked at him, a tiny white face with precisely half a black moustache to the left of its nose. It had the tiniest, most perfect whiskers. He dragged his attention back to Styles. "How many are there?"

"See, Artie ran off last time we made port. We thought she weren't coming back, but then Matthews found her sunning herself on the wharf, smug as you please. Seems she was socializin' among the toms in town while she was away, though. Coz she's been quieter'n usual the last few weeks, eatin' more scraps, and—" 

"How _many_ , Mr Styles?" 

This seemed to be the sticking point. Styles hemmed. "Seven, sir." 

Bush frowned. Eight cats. He was not a cruel man, and every ship could use a cat or two to keep mice and rats down. If the men grew fond of the beasts, it was better than that they torment them. But he doubted that _Hotspur_ could support eight full-grown cats. 

Styles had apparently travelled the same line of thought. "Don't drown 'em, sir. It'd break Matthews's heart, it would." 

Bush had heretofore been unaware that Matthews was especially partial to kittens. "They'll grow, Mr Styles." 

Styles's shoulders slumped. "Aye, sir. He said you'd say that." 

One of the kittens opened its mouth in a tremendous yawn, then subsided to pillow its head against its neighbour. Its tiny tail peeked out from the pile of fuzz and rags, twitching softly from side to side. 

Bush realized he had been bending over the box, nearly as absorbed as Styles. He clasped his hands behind his back and stood up. He considered the box, Styles, and his duty to the ship and her captain. Horatio—Captain Hornblower—was conscientious to a fault. He was also terribly soft-hearted. He would feel that it was his duty to order the litter culled to a more reasonable size, and then he would feel miserably guilty for it. Therefore he must never know. 

Bush opened his mouth to pronounce sentence upon this brood of unchaste Artemis—just as a soft _mew!_ left a tiny feline mouth. 

He sighed. 

"Well," he said, clearing his throat. "These are civilized waters. Other ships in Her Majesty's Navy may have use for them. But—" he saw Styles's face brighten, and put some thunder into his voice "—keep them out of the captain's way. If they so much as delay his morning coffee, I'll have you drown them yourself." 

Styles gave a solemn nod, but the fond smile was back. "Aye, sir. I'll get 'em to the galley and keep 'em warm." He chucked one of the kittens under the chin, then glanced at the sky and grimaced. "They'll be the driest thing aboard once that storm hits."

* * *

The storm raged for two days, and when the sun made its fitful way through the last of the clouds on the third afternoon, Horatio had shouted himself hoarse and Bush could see exhaustion in every movement his captain made. He wouldn't sleep, of course. He refused to rest for even so much as a hot cup of coffee until a full damage inspection had been made, which Bush supposed was fortunate since Styles was up in the rigging, and would burn the coffee in any case. 

Bush managed at least to claim the most laborious parts of the job himself, then bawl orders to the waterlogged crew and delegate away half of the rest of it before Horatio could stop him. It was a measure of how worn Horatio was that he only glared at his first lieutenant, the dying wind whipping his coat around his thin frame, and did not protest overmuch. 

The sun had set by the time Bush had finished inspecting the pump well and taken reports from Mr Prowse. Satisfied that _Hotspur_ would not sink beneath them before morning, he made his damp and gritty-eyed way to the stern, stamping his feet on the deck to warm them. Light spilled from under the door to the captain's cabin, and the marine on watch looked no more lively than Bush felt. 

Bush rapped for entry. There was silence from within. He waited, cursing that concentration of Horatio's that could blind and deafen him to all but the roar of cannon. 

"He hasn't come out, sir," said the marine. "And no one's gone in for hours." 

"Thank you, Carter," Bush said absently. He rapped again, to further silence. He rolled his tight shoulders and an ice-cold drop of water slipped past his collar and shivered down his spine. Damn this. He would rather face Horatio's annoyance at the interruption than stand dripping in the dark for much longer. 

Cautiously, he pushed the door open. 

He almost tripped over a kitten. He shut the door on reflex, but it was too small to have successfully escaped: its little paws splayed under it and it went down on its belly six inches before his boot. With a frown, Bush scooped it up; it scarcely covered his palm. 

Horatio's desk was covered in papers, and the captain himself was slumped over it, his head pillowed in the crook of his arm. The other hand still loosely clutched a pen, which dripped ink all over a half-written letter. A kitten curled just under Horatio's chin, snoring softly. Another batted at the wayward curls that sprang over his forehead, and a third was leaving delicate inky paw prints across the chart he had been consulting. 

The inkwell, at least, had been stoppered before exhaustion had overtaken him. It was tipped onto its side, and Bush righted it before one of the creatures should roll it over the edge. 

He counted. Yes, all seven kittens were there. One had wriggled its way into the pocket of Horatio's coat, flung over the back of the chair that held his untouched dinner tray; one was clinging halfway up his trouser leg, its tiny claws sunk deep into the heavy wool, a look of consternation on its face as it contemplated the distance to the ground; and the seventh was dozing in its box by the fire. 

The box—Styles, damn him. It came to Bush of a sudden that the galley had been soaked in the storm. The oven had gone out; he knew because he'd watched a man lay a new fire in it not an hour ago. He looked at the tiny kitten washing itself in the palm of his glove—it was the white one with the half-moustache—and swore silently. 

Lamplight played across Horatio's sleeping face, bringing youth and softness to the usually anxious features. It struck Bush in that deep-down tender place he had no name for: the same place that made him want to brush the messy black curls from his captain's brow, to see him warm and fed. He would have Styles flogged if—

The kitten clinging to Horatio's trousers gave a mew of distress, and Horatio stirred. 

"William." He blinked owlishly up at Bush. Still sleep-muddled, he caught up the kitten that had been nuzzling his face and held it to his chest. The pen rolled free from his other hand and the inky-pawed feline cartographer pounced after it. "My report—" Horatio rubbed his eyes, smearing ink across one cheek. 

Were he a sentimental man Bush might savour such moments, this open face that his captain turned to few but him, and store them against future hardship. Being as he was, he turned aside before such intimacy ran to awkwardness. The kitten at Horatio's ankle gave another yowl. Bush ducked down to rescue it, and by the time he had picked all its claws free and deposited it on the desk, Horatio had come fully awake, weary captain again and not drowsing youth. 

"You should have gone to bed," Bush chided him. 

Horatio stifled a yawn with the hand not cuddling a kitten. "I will." He looked down at the ruined report to Admiral Pellew and gave a wry chuckle. "It serves me right. I ought to listen to you." 

Bush forbore to mention that Horatio had not eaten, either. If he could have him sleep, he would count it a victory; and breakfast would likely be hot, the first such since before the storm. He bent to move the cold dinner tray and realized he still held the mustachioed kitten. Leaving the tray, he scooped up two more of the kittens from the desk. 

"There really are rather a lot of them, aren't there," came Horatio's voice as Bush bent to tuck the kittens into their warm box. He sounded bemused, as if he weren't quite sure the kittens belonged to the waking world. 

Inwardly, Bush cursed Styles. "The crew seem to have become attached." 

The chair scraped back from Horatio's desk, and Horatio appeared at his elbow with kittens five and six snugged up against his chest. Over his shoulder Bush could see the last of them in a death-battle with the discarded pen. Horatio handed one kitten to Bush and absently scritched the other's ears. "This must be the only warm place—" 

_Yes, and I ordered him specifically to leave you out of it!_ Bush thought, but desire for retribution melted before the way Horatio's fine fingers moved in the kitten's soft fur, and the smile lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes. He had not seen his captain laugh in too long. 

There was a scuffing sound at the door, and a low-voiced exchange. Carter stuck his head round the frame. "Begging your pardon, captain, but Mr Styles says you'll want to see him." 

Bush set his kitten in the box. "Yes," he ground out, "we do." Perhaps he needn't murder the man outright, but that didn't mean he had to let him off easily.

Styles was clutching a wet bundle of fur under his half-open jacket, and he winced visibly when he caught sight of Bush. The bundle squirmed free, dropped to the floor, and hurtled straight for the box of kittens, heedless of captain or lieutenant.

"Artie's scared of lightning," Styles said, shoving his hands under his armpits for warmth. "She must've been on the deck when the storm hit. Found 'er halfway up the mast just now, squalling like a green midshipman. Ain't seen her babies in days." 

"And so you felt they ought to be quartered in the captain's cabin?" Bush asked, employing the soft voice that had frozen more than one man in terror. 

Styles squirmed. "They would've _died_ , sir!"

Bush felt Horatio shift beside him. The captain spoke over the rising purring sounds from the box. "The kittens are yours, Mr Styles?"

"Aye—well, no, not more'n Artie is." He looked from Horatio to Bush and back again. "But I take care of 'em, captain, me and Matthews does."

"She seems quite biblically prolific." Horatio surrendered his kitten to the box, where its mother was inspecting her offspring as rigorously as the crew had gone over _Hotspur_. He reached over to the desk and carefully lifted the last ink-stained prodigal off the chart, then crouched to offer it to its mother. Artemis fairly snapped the kitten from his fingers, and immediately began to wash it clean.

"Well, I was thinking over that." Styles scratched his ear. "Mr Bush says we might trade some of 'em to other ships, and Orrock says he knows for a fact that the admiral don't have one. But I thought—" Here Styles glanced at Bush, whose eyebrows had climbed some distance during this speech. He soldiered on. "I thought you might like t'pick one out for yourself, captain. Nights like these, another living thing's a comfort." 

Bush opened his mouth, had a vision of Horatio with the kitten cradled against his chest, and decided that this was not, after all, a decision that devolved upon him. 

Horatio, still crouched by the box, had his head cocked slightly and seemed to be suppressing a smile. "Most kind, Mr Styles. I am sure Admiral Pellew will feel the same." He looked up at Bush. "In fact, I think Mr Styles should be the one to present the pick of the litter to the admiral." 

"Me?" Styles paled. 

"Of course. As _Hotspur_ 's steward they fall under your remit. I trust you will find homes for the other five in short order?" 

Styles recovered himself. "Aye, sir." He took a step towards the box by the fireplace, then paused uncertainly. 

Horatio waved him off. "In the morning, Mr Styles. One oughtn't unsettle a mother so recently reunited with her offspring." 

Styles bowed himself out. Bush leaned against the desk, considering his captain, whose dark head was bowed over the box again. He nearly asked just how long Horatio had known of the kittens' existence, but again discretion seemed the better part of valour. 

"So you'll keep one?" he asked instead. 

Horatio laughed. He looked up from the box with the sort of conspiratorial glee Bush hadn't seen since his deck showers on the _Renown_. 

"Certainly, Mr Bush. Come and choose one for me." 

Bush surrendered. _Here lies William Bush_ , he thought, _vanquished by a box of kittens_.


End file.
